


Backstage

by Chryse



Series: What Did You Think About [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-08 20:16:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4318467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chryse/pseuds/Chryse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Men in tights.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Backstage

“Mmm, nothing like a warm bed on a cold night.” John slid under the covers, where he promptly encountered the long, bed-hogging limbs of his favorite consulting detective, warmer than the bed and much more naked. “Oh, hey. And a warm body as well.”

“Your hands are cold,” Sherlock complained.

“Best warm them up then,” John said, sticking his hands between Sherlock’s legs. Sherlock yelped and tried to twitch indignantly away, but John pulled him back and wrapped his arms around him, laughing.

“See? Already warmed up. What do you feel like doing tonight, then?”

Sherlock stopped thrashing around and pondered. “You know, you never did tell me about your fantasies when you were young.”

John had almost forgotten about that, but of course Sherlock never would. “The truth is that I didn’t really have any good ones. Not like you did.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one thing, I mostly fantasized about girls.”

“Why? Why did you?” Sherlock sounded more curious than affronted. “You’re clearly attracted to men as well, that must have been obvious even to you.”

“Yes, thanks, Sherlock, I am capable of observing that much. I don’t know…it wasn’t like I learned about bisexuality at school. I suppose I thought I had to choose, and it was a lot easier to choose being straight, wasn’t it? So…”

Sherlock had already pounced on the loophole in this statement. “So there were boys you wanted. You just chose not to think about them. What boys? What were they like? You must have had a type.”

“Er…” John screwed up his face, trying to remember. Had he a type? He supposed so: he’d always had a bit of a thing for tall slim blokes, long legs and—“I’ve just remembered! You’re going to love this. We went to the ballet one time—my cousin was in it, it was that Christmas one, with the nutcracker. Harry fell asleep. There was a male dancer who danced with the main ballerina—not the little girl, the one who has the big solo—“

“The Sugar Plum Fairy.”

“Right! He had these black tights on and I couldn’t get him out of my head. I think it was the tights. Because, you know, tights were a girl thing, so it seemed okay to be thinking about; they rather flattened things out in the front anyway, so I must have reckoned I wasn’t thinking about his penis, I was just thinking about his bum.” John’s hands, which had been idly stroking Sherlock’s back, slid down to cup his buttocks and tug him closer. “I’ve always been a bit of an arse man, you know.”

Sherlock let himself be tugged, tilting his hips to grind against John in a way that was warming him up far quicker than the covers. “So what happened? What was the fantasy?”

“Er…that was it. Arse. Tights.”

John could hear Sherlock scowl even in the dark. “That’s pathetically undetailed.”

“Sherlock, I think you might be the exception here. Most teenage guys don’t really spend a lot of time elaborating on their fantasies. They just want to get off with something that isn’t their hand. Anyway, I’m certain his arse had nothing on yours, so why bother thinking about that when I can have something so much better right here?”

“I was coming up with better fantasies than that in primary—“ Sherlock started, but then John rolled on top of him, still gripping his arse, and covered Sherlock’s mouth with his own. That shut him up.

 

_Were you aware that male dancers wear belts?_ _SH_

John blinked at his phone. The dancer conversation had been several days ago and Sherlock hadn’t brought it up since; John rather thought he’d given up the whole thing in disgust at John’s limited imagination.

_No, but why do they? They haven’t got trousers._

_Not that type of belt. It’s an undergarment. SH_

John’s imagination immediately supplied a picture of a garter belt. With hairy male legs. This might be a highly arousing image for many people, but John had to admit it did nothing for him.

_So you didn’t know? SH_

Where on earth was this going? _Nope._

And that was it. Sherlock never responded.

 

Sherlock did not mention dancers, or dancewear, or underwear for that matter, again, and John was on the verge of forgetting all about it. Then they got called out early one morning for an elaborately trussed dead body in the Thames. Sherlock peered at the tiny photo Lestrade texted him and said with apparent satisfaction, “Overkill. Showing off. Twelve hours, max,” and sent John upstairs to change into his “dodgy crime scene” shoes. Sherlock was right: he solved the case in ten, and after a gleefully celebratory dinner they were back at Baker Street almost exactly twelve hours later.

“Well, that was fun,” John said cheerfully, switching on the lamp by the door and heading for the one by the desk.

“No, don’t. Leave it off,” Sherlock said.

John looked back. Sherlock had hung up his coat and was now unbuttoning his jacket, which he draped over a chair. “Draw the curtains.”

John had been rather thinking of a cup of tea and some telly, but he’d never regretted following Sherlock on any of his bonkers tangents, so he drew the curtains. When he turned around Sherlock had removed his shoes and socks—typical, John thought with amusement; he probably didn’t care what anybody on the street saw them doing, he just wanted to get his shoes off without John watching. Even Sherlock found it impossible to look sexy stripping off socks.

On the other hand, Sherlock was quite definitely sexy unbuttoning his shirt, and that was what he was doing now. Deliberately, eyes fixed on John, he unbuttoned one cuff at a time, then started at his top button and flicked his way down, finally shrugging off the dark purple shirt to reveal a tight black vest beneath. That was much more interesting than tea, John decided, and then Sherlock thumbed open his trouser button. “Should I—“

“Stay right where you are.” Sherlock’s voice was so low it was practically subsonic, and John obediently took his hands from his jumper hem.

Sherlock dropped his trousers and stepped neatly away from them, and there underneath he was wearing long black tights that ended at his ankles. In the low light of the single lamp he was a vision: pale skin glowing against all that black clothing and hair, eyes wide and dark, long black-clad legs that went on and on and on. John wanted to gobble him up like a biscuit. Sherlock slid his right foot forward and curled his arm, and then abruptly he whirled around in a perfect pirouette, once, twice, and then back exactly as he had started, foot arched in front of him.

“Do you know the secret to holding your balance in a turn?” Sherlock asked. He took three swift strides forward. There was nothing delicate about the movement; he was predatory as a panther, stopping a foot or so away from John. His foot slid forward again. ”You fix your eyes on an object, on one fixed thing.” His arm came up and he rose onto the ball of his right foot. “You keep your gaze on that object until the last possible minute. And then…” His other arm snapped into place and he whipped around, so fast John saw only a blur of hair until he stopped, eyes still holding John’s. “…your eyes find it again.”

John stared, almost afraid to breathe. Sherlock was still on his toes, one foot in front of the other like a dancer in a jewelry box, and now he turned in miniscule increments until his back was to John. John could see the muscles of his legs flexing under the clinging black fabric. Sherlock looked over his shoulder at John, head cocked a bit. “Is this what you wanted?”

John stepped forward and rested his hands lightly on Sherlock’s waist. “That’s a very nice view.” Carefully, he used his hands to turn Sherlock back around, still up on the balls of his feet, until they faced each other again. “But now that I’ve gotten a look up close…I think I like this side even better.” He cupped his hand over the bulge in Sherlock’s tights. Sherlock swallowed audibly and dropped down on his heels abruptly—thank heavens, he was tall enough as it was, John thought—and John wrapped one arm around his waist and pulled his head down with the other. It was a hard kiss, hot and messy and demanding, and when he finally broke off John gripped Sherlock by the back of the neck and kissed his way down that long pale throat and the bare expanse of his sternum. Sherlock shivered all over and arched his back, his body flowing over John’s arm as gracefully as water as he curved impossibly far toward the floor.  John tightened his supporting arm and spread his other hand under Sherlock’s sharp shoulder blades, lifting his upper body, and bent to mouth over the black fabric of his vest. Sherlock’s nipples stood out hard through the thin clingy cloth and John nipped at them, making Sherlock shudder and clutch at his shoulders for balance. John reached for his arse and squeezed, thinking that the tights really were rather nice, and Sherlock pulled back upright and kissed him hard again, walking them backward until John bumped the desk.

“You were watching me all through the performance,” Sherlock breathed into John’s ear. “All the way through. And then you waited at the stage door for me to come out, but I never came. All the other dancers came and left, and finally the security guard, locking up. And you asked him where I was. And he said I was still inside, that I’d wanted to work on something, and was I expecting you?”

“You saw me watching you, didn’t you,” John said. He was still gripping Sherlock’s arse, grinding them together. “You’re waiting for me.”

“So he let you in and told you to lock the door when you leave. And you walk down the corridor to the stage, and there I am. I’ve just walked offstage.”

John dug his hands in under Sherlock’s thighs and lifted him up and Sherlock, catching on, wound his arms around John’s neck as John turned them to deposit Sherlock onto the desk. Those long, black-clad legs came around his waist and wrapped tight, pulling them closer.

“You see me. You come to me backstage,” John said in a low voice. “We don’t talk.”

“No.”

“You saw my eyes on you earlier. You know I want you.”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to have you.”

“Yes.”

“Did you let them take you, those other _boys_?” John put just the slightest emphasis on the word. “Those other dancers?”

Sherlock’s eyes were hooded, simmering in the soft light of the room.  “They’re not so strong as you. All their muscles are in their legs, but you…” John bent his mouth to Sherlock’s throat and Sherlock’s back bowed, practically swooning in John’s grip. He put his palms down flat on the desk behind him, arching into John. “It’s dark back here,”  he said, his voice a low rumble.  “There are only the lights from the stage. It smells like dust, and paint, and rosin for the pointe shoes. We should be the only ones in the building, but there’s no way to be sure. You’d best keep your clothes on.”

“And you’d best be quiet,” John said. He put his palms flat on Sherlock’s chest and ran them down to his groin, and Sherlock’s legs fell open wide and his head dropped back. “If you can. But I think we’ll have these off.”

This proved easier said than done. The tights were, well, tight, and Sherlock had to unwrap his legs and lift his hips up for John to get them tugged down far enough to pull them off. “I decided to forego the dance belt,” Sherlock said suddenly, breaking character for the first time, “since it wasn’t in your fantasy anyway. Good thing.”

“Very good thing,” John agreed. He’d Googled the dance belt after Sherlock mentioned it and now knew it was essentially an industrial-strength thong—they’d never have got it off.

John finally got the tights peeled off Sherlock’s legs and dropped them to the floor. When he looked up, Sherlock, still perched on the edge of the desk, was leaning back on his palms with his legs spread wide, giving John an excellent view of everything the tights had been concealing.

“You came prepared,” Sherlock purred, spreading his legs even wider when John stepped between them. “You’d come to this performance on purpose because of me. You’d seen my picture in the papers and knew you had to have me.”

John wondered with a distinct sense of amusement how his vague fantasy of a dancer’s arse had been morphed into one in which Sherlock was the centre of attention, but then that was hardly a surprising development. “Where’d I put it then?”

“Desk drawer,” Sherlock said, looking smug.

John opened the drawer and pulled out the lube. Sherlock had choreographed the whole thing, he realized; maybe he did deserve to be the object of universal desire. “Clever me,” he said. He opened the bottle and set to work, intent on knocking that smugness off Sherlock’s face as quickly as possible. He was quite successful. Two fingers in and Sherlock was flat on his back, hands knotted in his hair and legs clenched around John’s waist. “Where are we now?” John whispered.

Sherlock opened dazed, darkened eyes and for a moment John thought he was too far gone to answer, but then he licked his lips and said, “Backstage, with the scenery…you pressed me up against the wall, I had my legs around your waist, you had your hands on my arse, pulling me open…oh…you’ve laid me down here, on a prop table, there’s some scenery in front of us, but anyone could see, you’re telling me to be quiet…” John twisted his fingers expertly and Sherlock pressed his hands to his mouth and moaned.

“Maybe I don’t want you to be quiet. Maybe I want to be caught,” John said, his voice husky in his own ears. “That’s what you thought before, wasn’t it? Maybe I want those other dancers to see me with you. See me fucking this beautiful body.”

“You don’t need them to see you. You just want everyone to know you’ve had me. Marked up and messy and used.” Sherlock hooked his fingers and drew his nails over the exposed part of his chest. He didn’t even really leave scratches—just red lines—but the sight heated the blood in John’s veins. He’d never particularly had that desire, to mark and claim, but surely that was part of the appeal of a pristinely untouchable dancer, wasn’t it? Like wanting to leave footprints on fresh snow.

John twisted his fingers again and slid in a third. Sherlock groaned and arched his back, legs slipping around John’s waist, and pulled his thighs up and back. “Dancers are very flexible,” he said breathlessly. “Care to see?”

“For God’s sake, don’t hurt yourself,” John said. Sherlock appeared to be getting a bit carried away considering he hadn’t actually danced in about twenty years. “Give me that.” He took Sherlock’s leg in his free hand and kissed his way along the back of his thigh, behind his knee, and down to his instep. Then he crooked the fingers of his left hand and pressed and the same instant he flicked his tongue across Sherlock’s toes, making Sherlock give a high-pitched little yelp. John hooked Sherlock’s leg over his shoulder and unfastened his trousers. “Now I’m going to show you how _I_ dance,” he said, pulling out his fingers and running his slick hand over his cock.

“ _Pas de deux_ ,” Sherlock began, but then John pushed just the head of his cock in and Sherlock arched off the table, whatever he was going to say next lost in a long groan. John teased him for a few minutes, working himself in and out just the first inch or so, until Sherlock let go his other leg, reached down, and grasped the edge of the desk so he could get leverage to shove himself deeper. “Yeah, like that, hold on,” John said a little breathlessly and he gripped Sherlock’s hips and lifted them, fucking him in short shallow thrusts designed to hit his prostate every time. By the look of it he was succeeding: Sherlock was flushed and gasping, the tendons of his neck standing out like ripcords, cock red and swollen with fluid welling at the tip with every thrust.

John could see their shadow where the lamplight threw it on the wall. The shadow of Sherlock’s bent legs looked like wings, as though John had captured a butterfly—no, a swan, _Swan Lake_ , a black swan, like Zeus and that wood nymph, or wasn’t Zeus the swan? John tried very hard to think about swans, Greek myths, ballet, anything to distract himself, but the sight of his own beautiful dancer writhing in ecstasy beneath him was too much. He was going to come. He slowed down, burying himself in Sherlock’s body in a long, slow slide until he was sunk to the hilt, and Sherlock sucked in air and grabbed for his hair. He was close too. John had to grip harder now that Sherlock was no longer holding onto the table, and his fingers dug hard into the tender flesh as he pulled out, almost all the way, and held for a second before shoving back in. Oh, fuck, it was like torture, that exquisite friction, just this side of too slow. He did it again. “Ah,” Sherlock gasped,  “Ah, ah, ah—“  

He wasn’t even trying to be quiet. John’s thumb caught the silky fabric of the black vest as he pushed in again, trying to hold back, but it just felt so good—his groin was tightening, he could feel the orgasm rising all way down in his toes. “Hold on,” he managed and flexed his hips again in a long slow stroke of exquisite sensation, deep, _deep_ , Sherlock sliding beneath him, and then he was coming, forgetting about everything but the primal urge to thrust as hard and fast as he could. When he finally stopped Sherlock’s head was halfway off the desk. He was still clutching at the edge with one hand and had grabbed himself with the other, so John let go his hip and wrapped his own hand around Sherlock’s. He pinned Sherlock in place between his free hand and his still-hard cock and brought him to climax in a few swift strokes. The sight of his semen spattering the tight black vest was once John would remember fondly for days.

When Sherlock had shuddered himself still, John pulled himself up and out. He looked down at his swan. Sherlock was draped over the desk in a manner that somehow managed to appear debauched and ridiculously sensual but could not possibly be comfortable, so John looked over at the sofa, calculated, and scooped Sherlock up.

“My hero,” Sherlock said sarcastically as John staggered over and deposited him on the sofa in what was rather closer to a controlled drop than he had planned.

“Well, you were the one nattering on about my manly strength,” John said, shoving Sherlock’s feet out of the way so he could collapse on the sofa’s other end. “What was that all about anyway? Those blokes can lift ballerinas over their heads.”

Sherlock scrunched his nose in a shrug. “It sounded good.”

John reached out with the tip of his foot and snagged the crumpled pile of black tights. He flipped the tights up and caught them. “Hey, I think these are okay. We could use them again sometime.”

“Or,” Sherlock drawled, “you could tell me your real fantasy. The one that actually had details.”

Jon glanced up. “I told you already, I’ve nothing interesting. Girls. No details.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and John knew with a sinking feeling that he wasn’t fooled in the least. “Anyway,” he said quickly, “it’s your turn now anyway. You have to tell me another of yours.”

“You have to guess. I’m not doing all the work; I already had to make up the details for this one.”

“But you’re good at it.”

“I am,” Sherlock agreed without a hint of modesty. “But you still--wait!” He pushed himself upright on the sofa, suddenly animated. “You said you didn’t spend a lot of time on the details or think about men when you were young. That implies you’ve had adult fantasies, doesn’t it?” Sherlock leaned forward, pinning John with his sharp eyes as though he were about to whirl round in another pirouette. “Tell me, John,” he said, dropping his voice to that low purring register again. “What did you think about when you were twenty-one?”

John grinned at him. His beautiful dancer, all long white limbs and skimpy black vest, gazing at his one fixed object with all the intensity of a new mystery in his eyes. “Nope,” he said cheerfully. “If I have to guess, then so do you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Don't worry, angstaholics, I haven't abandoned you! Regularly scheduled programming will resume sometime in the autumn.


End file.
